The Definition of Strength
by fowl68
Summary: When Genis saw Mithos again, it had been less than a year after he'd died.


**Disclaimer:  
** I don't own anything!

A **uthor's Note:** This was a very difficult fic for me to write. Genis is one of those characters that I don't fully understand, but this is me trying to.

* * *

 _"The truth is that the world is full of dragons, and none of us are as powerful or cool as we'd like to be. And that sucks. But when you're confronted with that fact, you can either crawl into a hole and quit, or you can get out there, take off your shoes, and Bilbo it up."  
-Patrick Rothfuss_

* * *

The first time that Genis saw Mithos again, it was in the middle of the night. He was shuffling back from the bathroom, yawning and eyes crusty. There was movement in the corner of his room and he looked over, expecting a mouse or perhaps a bird caught inside.

He didn't expect Mithos to be standing in the corner, looking slightly confused.

"Genis?"

He didn't respond. Genis wasn't nearly awake enough for this, and he slipped back under his covers, pointedly keeping his back to the corner.

* * *

Morning came with a blinding late autumn sun beaming into the room. Genis groaned; he and Raine hadn't bought new curtains yet. They hadn't been home long enough. Iselia had welcomed them back easily enough for the most part, had let him and Raine stay in their homes while theirs was being rebuilt from the fire, but there had still been looks though. Mistrust in some of their eyes, hurt still fresh from losing loved ones to Desians and fire, and people always wanted to blame someone. Half-elves were an easy target.

"You never seemed the type who hated mornings to me."

Genis froze at the voice. He had a hazy memory of last night, of Mithos, but it had been a dream, right? One of those half-dreams that people saw when their brains weren't all the way awake.

But he was very much awake now, and Genis rolled over so he could see the rest of the little house he shared with his sister. And there was Mithos, sitting cross-legged on the table by the window.

"…You're dead." _(He'd killed him. He'd dealt the last blow, a ferocious Gravity Well that had wrenched an angel down to earth, never to rise)_

Mithos uncrossed his legs, letting them fall until he's standing upright, tossing his head to get stray hairs out of his face. "How observant of you."

"Are—are you a ghost?" Genis remembered Shadow's Temple, remembered the monsters to be found down there, as well as in Derris-Kharlan. Spirits with empty, haunted eyes, their hands outreached, their voices wailing and shrieking.

"Close enough to one, I suppose." Mithos said it nonchalantly, like he hadn't given his current existence much thought.

In the stories, ghosts haunted their murderers a lot. Genis had, technically, been the one to kill him, even though it had been a group effort. But in the stories, ghosts usually only had something unresolved with the person they were haunting. And Mithos had seemed—mostly—at peace with himself and his actions when he'd died. He'd come as close to acceptance as he'd been able to go. So why was he here?

"I'm not guilty," Genis told him.

Mithos smirked a little. "You keep telling yourself that."

* * *

The thing about Mithos was that there was something _off_ about him. Genis couldn't quite put his finger on it. He still looked the same, sunshine hair and summer sky eyes, pale skin and limbs that were slightly too long on a frame that had never finished growing. From the proud arch of his brow to the pert nose, down to the expressive mouth, he hadn't changed.

It wasn't even the fact that Mithos walked through objects. Not all the time, and mostly not on purpose. Heavier things were easier for him to use, to sit on and hold. Light things, like paper, he just passed through.

When Genis put that theory of weight to him, Mithos tilted his head thoughtfully, but eventually just said, "It can't be that. If that were true, I wouldn't pass through people."

He'd waved his hand through Genis' arm to prove a point, making Genis feel like his bones were coated in ice.

It wouldn't be until later that Genis realized what it was.

Mithos wasn't insane.

He'd lost that raw edge to him.

He was still incredibly intelligent, reading Genis' papers and books over his shoulder, poking holes in arguments and theories, waving away some of the ones developed over four thousand years and explaining that 'No, the Plague of the year 3127 didn't originate in Sybak. It came from a village further away, whose drinking water was tainted from a battle on the mountains. Rotten corpses tend to do that."

He was still passionate, and angry, and Genis flinched the first few times that Mithos stormed up to someone, spitting words and insults, as eloquent and elegant as you please, before he remembered that Mithos couldn't actually _do_ anything to them, and that they couldn't hear him anyway.

He was still thoughtful and he spoke gently to Genis—most of the time—making him remember the boy he'd fallen in love with, the survivor from Ozette.

But there wasn't resentment, or bitterness in him. There was no grief, sharp and still-fresh, in him. No outbursts of not knowing where—or when—he was, or who he was talking to.

In some way, Genis wondered if this was a Mithos that had come to terms with Martel's death. If this was what he would've been—a grim hero, a guardian of his people, an outspoken advocator and ambassador—if Martel had never died.

* * *

Sometimes, Genis wondered if the others could see him. There were plenty of dinners at Dirk's house—it was almost like he expected any of them on any particular day of the week, depending on who was in the area—and it was nice to get together and see each other properly, not just if they happened to be in the same town on business. Lloyd occasionally looked over his shoulder, or towards places where Mithos was, but whenever Genis asked him if there was something wrong, Lloyd would just shake his head. "No. Just…you—nothing. Just a weird feeling."

He caught Kratos and Yuan's eyes lingering, sometimes, but they never said anything if they really did see him, and Mithos didn't say anything to them either.

 _(Once, Genis asks him why. A little bit after Kratos leaves with Derris-Kharlan, they're coming back from the store and Genis can feel when Derris-Kharlan leaves, its mana like a familiar warm pressure lifting from him. Mithos looks up at the sky at the same time Genis feels it._

 _"Can you feel it?" Genis asks._

 _"No…I can't feel much of anything anymore." There is a 'but' lingering at the end of the sentence, words unsaid, but Genis doesn't push him. When Lloyd tells them, later, about Kratos' departure, Genis asks Mithos when they're alone if he'd felt that, at least._

 _Mithos shakes his head. "Not a feeling. Just…knowing."_

 _Genis remembers then that regardless of how twisted and broken their relationship had become, Mithos, Kratos, and Yuan had known each other for over four thousand years. "…Is there anything you wanted me to say to them? Or to say to Yuan?" Before he's gone too, Genis doesn't add._

 _Mithos shuts down a little, goes colder, his face a mask, and it's closer to the Mithos that Genis remembers. "No. We've said all we need to say to each other.")_

* * *

Mithos thought aloud. Not to Genis in specific, but it apparently helped organize his thoughts. Genis would be looking over one of the proposals for new half-elf legislation that Zelos or Sheena had sent him from Meltokio, or policies for getting half-elves proper working rights from Regal, and Mithos read over his shoulder.

Sometimes, all Genis got was a thoughtful hum.

Most of the time, he got a snort and half-verbal diatribes on why it wouldn't work, and ways to improve it. Mithos didn't have to stop for breath now; he didn't need oxygen, his throat didn't get sore, and sleep wasn't possible—or so Genis was assuming considering he never saw it. Mithos would cite dozens of governments over the millennia that might have tried similar things, and why they hadn't worked, and the Balacruf Dynasty didn't get a whole lot right, but it certainly had good worker's rights.

Genis had tried interrupting the first few times, just to argue, or ask questions, but half the time, all it would do was shut down the verbal half, those summer sky eyes going thoughtful and he wouldn't hear from Mithos for hours, at minimum, because he was so lost in thought. So now, all Genis did was quietly write down what bits of Mithos' thought process he _did_ hear, making notes on past legislatures to look up.

It was during one of these 'brainstorming sessions'—as Genis had taken to calling them in the privacy of his own mind—that the issue of repealing the automatic death penalty against half-elves came up.

Mithos sneered when he read the papers. "The Pope was a real piece of work."

"I thought you worked with him."

"He was a useful tool," Mithos dismissed, and this was one of the moments that Genis was reminded of Yggdrasill, of the careless regard for people's lives. Mithos might have regained his sanity in death, but that didn't mean he'd become a saint. "But the way he went about doing what he did—I guess it's to be expected."

"Why?"

"He was from Ozette, originally. An old family of priests and scribes there."

"You're saying it like the fact that he's from Ozette is the reason he hated half-elves the way he did."

"It was certainly a large factor." Mithos turned, leaning his hip back on the desk. "The contempt for half-elves ran deep in that village. For anything outside the norm, rather. The only reason they never ran Altessa out of his hiding place was because he was useful to them as a blacksmith."

"It couldn't have been the entire village."

Mithos arched his brows. "Don't try and pretend you didn't notice how they treated Presea. And she was one of them. She played with their children, babysat them, went to birthdays and funerals. Until she became something different."

"Until Vharley gave her an Exsphere to make her one of _your_ experiments," Genis snapped.

"True," Mithos conceded, unashamed. _(It makes Genis angry how Mithos has never felt remorse for the things he'd done. Not when they'd killed him, not in his afterlife, not even when Martel herself had told him to stop)_ "But it didn't take much, did it? She was never violent towards them, never disrespectful, and they turned on her for it. Treated her like she was one of us. Well—better than that, but still."

A little pebble of ice drops into Genis' stomach. "What do mean, they treated her better than us? They abandoned her. She was living in that house with her father's _corpse_ and they wouldn't even acknowledge the fact that she was alive!"

"Sometimes, it's better to be ignored." There was a look in Mithos' eyes that Genis couldn't quite place. It was partially pain, partially sorrow, and partially something else. "You were never told about the Ozette Massacre, did you?"

The ice was spreading, inching up to Genis' ribs. "No."

"Twenty-nine years ago, the population of Ozette was nearly double what it is now. Half-elves had their own section of town, on the outskirts, but they were tolerated. They had their own businesses, their own chapel, their own graveyard. Most of Ozette's income comes from the things they grow. The soil is very fertile, but there was a drought that year. Their crops wouldn't grow, they lost half their orchards. That summer was one of the hottest—and driest—on record for the area.

"There was a petition to Meltokio for aid, but it came too late. The people were starving, enraged, and they needed people to blame. The half-elves had little stores of food that they'd saved—which they had offered to the humans, but they were refused because no one wants a half-breed's food—and that made them an easy target.

"The humans rioted, raiding the half-elves' section of town, burning and breaking things. The death count was high, that day. The dead were still being counted two days later, when the aid from Meltokio arrived. And the Meltokio authorities took the surviving half-elves prisoner, and took them to Sybak, to the Research Academy."

Genis remembered the basement, remembered how pale Kate had been from never seeing the sun, remembered how defeated she'd seemed. "That's terrible. And the half-elves never did anything wrong…"

"To top it off, Meltokio took any remaining items of value—art, treasures, heirlooms—and took them back to sell them at auction." Mithos tucked hair behind one triangular ear. "The money was supposedly for the rebuilding of Ozette, and to help fund their aid, but the money went to helping fund a new wing in Sybak University."

"You mean where the half-elves were kept locked up, and made to work?"

Mithos' smile was a bitter, ugly thing. "Exactly."

 _(There are moments where Genis wants to hate Mithos for all he's done, and then there are moments like these where he feels the rage and injustice burn, and he just wants to hurt the people responsible. Like Mithos had)_

* * *

Genis went to Meltokio, and had to ask Zelos to help him get into the Royal Archives. It wasn't such a strange request, not when Genis had been helping get half-elves their proper rights under the law, which they used to have.

Mithos didn't follow him into the Archives. Where he was, Genis didn't know, but the ghost had veered off in another direction.

Sifting through the Archives took hours. Genis took a lamp with him, and it took quite a while to sort through almost thirty years of papers. When he found them, he sat, back braced against the shelves, the box of papers on the floor in front of him. There were newspaper clippings inside, copies of official documents, crop reports…there.

Ozette crop reports were coming in short, as were their taxes. That made sense, for a village that depended so much on their agriculture. And here, half-elven names on the leases for businesses and houses.

A petition for aid.

A damage report. Dozens of lives lost, but the math—Genis felt bile in his throat. There were actual mathematical calculations on the worth of half-elven lives, and they were considered balanced out by the fact that the survivors were taken as labor in Sybak.

An inventory of items. Paintings, sculptures, with values in gald scribbled beside them, as well as where they were found.

An ad for the auction. Mithos hadn't lied, about any of it. _(But that's the key, isn't it? Mithos doesn't lie outright. His lies are of omission. He hadn't lied once when he was playing the part of Ozette survivor. Angels had fallen from the sky, he'd been raised by his sister, he didn't trust humans…all of it true, to a point. But Mithos wields the truth like a weapon, like the spells that he weaves without thought, and it's so incredibly effective)_

Genis was sure that, if he was to continue looking in the next thirty years, he would be able to track the loss of half-elven rights even more than they'd had. He'd be able to see them being thought of as criminals, barely tolerated, their living quarters delegated to specific sections of cities.

He left the Archives, that rage still burning. As he descended the front stairs of Meltokio Castle, he shouldn't have been surprised to see Mithos standing around Martel Cathedral, eyes on the stained glass windows.

Mithos turned, as though sensing him. "Looks like you found what you were looking for."

"You didn't stop any of it," Genis said through gritted teeth. "You had the power—you could have done something, but—"

"You can't micromanage people, Genis. I tried, the first few centuries. It leads to worse chaos. People need free will—even if only an illusion of it—so that the world keeps turning."

He said it so calmly, so casually that it only angered Genis more. "Killing you once wasn't enough."

* * *

"Didn't you wonder why I let you find me in Ozette, of all places?"

Genis didn't look at Mithos, making a quick stir-fry for dinner. Mithos hadn't followed him after their confrontation outside Martel Cathedral. It had been two days since he'd seen him. "Because Altessa hid there. And its opinion on half-elves gave you a sympathetic background."

"Both true, but do you really think I would've destroyed an entire town simply because they harbored Altessa?"

"Yes."

Mithos' lip curled a little. "Cynicism doesn't suit you. And I might have, but not to a place that hadn't deserved it. Ozette deserved everything that I did to it. I couldn't have handled that situation without risking the exposure of Cruxis, a glimpse of the puppetmaster. My plan worked because no one knew who was pulling the strings. I decided to use the opportunity of infiltrating your group to take out two birds with one stone."

"You think that that's any better?"

"I do."

"Revenge doesn't get anyone anywhere." Lloyd had taught them that.

"Only if you do it wrong. You've heard the idea that revenge is a 'dish best served cold'?" Genis' silence was answer enough. "It's why you don't go after revenge half-cocked. I think if you're going to have vengeance, you use it to your full advantage. Revenge is the fuel, not the fire. It can do something useful or it can burn everything until there's nothing left."

 _(And it had worked, hadn't it? Mithos' revenge on the humans for what they'd done to Martel, to him…he'd destroyed and built empires, created a religion, all in the name of it. He'd made himself a vengeful god and Martel the benevolent Goddesss)_

* * *

"You're a very good writer," Genis said one night several months later. Raine had been going through the copies of Derris-Kharlan's database that the Renegades had. Much of the last four thousand years of history was kept on there. Genis had been helping her go through it—a thousand times easier than looking through the Royal Archives—and he'd found essays written by all four of the Kharlan Heroes, protesting the war, slavery, the treatment of half-elves. The ones that interested Genis the most were Mithos and Martel's.

Martel Yggdrasill's essays were blunt and polite, but they were the kind of polite that was so thin that it didn't take much to hear the subtle rage beneath it all. It was interesting to be able to see Mithos in her words, in the sharp edges of her tone, and the way she made her points, perfectly aimed and timed to make them absolutely effective.

Mithos' works were similar, but they were more openly passionate, a blatant call to arms. Challenging the readers' opinions, forcing them into action.

When Mithos didn't say anything, Genis repeated it. He'd learned that Mithos was, very often and very easily, stuck inside his own head.

"They couldn't tell how old I was on paper," Mithos said finally, not looking away from the window. "They thought I was an adult. Quite the shock when we met in person."

"I bet." Genis had had similar reactions when he dealt with the political parties in Tethe'alla, trying to help abolish the anti-half-elf legislation. Sylvarant didn't like half-elves, but they didn't have laws backing up that hate, not anymore. In the actual city-states, sure, but most of Sylvarant was little tiny towns and farms that didn't have proper names on a map, hardly more than a rest stop on the road.

Genis bit his lip before offering, "I can write for you, if you want to say something. All you have to do is dictate."

Now, Mithos did turn to look at him, face unreadable. "Why would you want to do that?"

"History is written by the victors."

The curl of Mithos' lip was somewhere between a sneer and a smirk. "You're right; you all won. Write your history; the dead don't have a voice."

"Unless I give them one," Genis pointed out.

Mithos sat back, crossing his legs and folding his arms, one eyebrow arched. _(Genis has seen that same posture and look on Yuan, and he wonders who learned it from whom)_ "You haven't answered my question. Why?"

"Because you're more than just—" A villain, a victim, a power-hungry god. "…History deserves to know the truth. All of the truth."

"Taking a stand against censorship, Genis? How noble."

"'To keep information from the people is to silence them and is simply another kind of oppression'."

Mithos' eyes narrowed at him, disliking having his own words thrown back at him, but there was a pleased quirk to his lips. "Touché. And I've heard of ghost writers, but you're taking this to another level."

Genis just laughed.

* * *

When Genis was fifteen, Chocolat's mother got sick. She didn't get better; Genis sat with Chocolat at the funeral as she trembled with the effort to not cry. He tried to tell her that it was okay—crying wasn't always a sign of weakness—but the words didn't quite want to make it out. They tripped and tumbled over each other and Genis finally just settled for holding her hand. She squeezed tight enough for it to hurt, but he didn't complain.

He saw Mithos walking amongst the crowd, semi-transparent in the strong Palmacosta sun. He didn't seem to be affected by the death at all and Genis wanted to hate him for it. How could he be so dispassionate about someone's _life_? Especially someone as generous as Cacao had been.

After everyone left, Genis lingered in the graveyard, which was a bit further inland than the city proper. Mithos stood beside him, reading the inscription on the gravestone. "'The Goddess guides us on calm seas to a land of plenty.' She still believes in the Goddess? After you told her the truth?"

"It's like Colette says; maybe the Goddess isn't Martel, but maybe there is _a_ Goddess out there, watching out for people."

Mithos snorted. "Ridiculous."

"You never believed in any kind of higher power?" Genis said, slightly skeptical.

"…People used to pray to the Summon Spirits. For everything—crops, for rain, peace, to bring their family home from the war. The humans had a speaker for their bloodthirsty gods, who supposedly decreed that all those of impure blood should be cleansed from the earth." Mithos' jaw tightened. "No one ever helped us. Not when we were starving, not when we almost died of fever. No one saved Martel from those humans, or any of the thousands of slaves in the fields. No higher power came down to stop the war that was tearing the world apart. No god or goddess stopped me from anything I ever did for four thousand years.

"There is no higher power, Genis." Mithos met his eyes and they blazed a terrible, powerful blue, like the hottest flames. "No one to come down from on high. I decided a long time ago that if no one was going to help me, I would help myself. I _was_ a god, and I was a pretty benevolent one."

" _Billions_ of people suffered because of you for four thousand years!"

"Instead of the _trillions_ that would have continued to suffer had I done nothing?" Mithos challenged. "Did you ever know war, Genis? What is the worst war that you can remember?"

It took a moment to think about it, to remember Raine's history lessons. "The riots when the Sylvaranti Empire—"

"Eighth," Mithos corrected.

"The Eighth Sylvaranti Empire fell. The riots escalated into battles that spread across the Asgard continent."

"And how long did the war last?"

Genis could see where the arguments were leading. "…Nine years. The fighting ended with the division of the Asgard continent in two, with Hima and Asgard being the leading powers."

"The Kharlan War lasted for nineteen years, officially. Unofficially, the fighting had begun long before war was declared, and it lasted twenty-two. A twenty-two year war, Genis. And people were dying by the hundreds every day. That's on the official counts. If you look at the human numbers, if you look under the numbers labelled 'cargo', that number is much higher because slaves were killed daily, at a whim. Half-elves were easy to find, weren't we? And how many dwarves are left in the world? They used to have their own kingdoms, but Gnome's Temple is the only sign left, their people scattered, nearly extinct."

Genis was frozen under that gaze, under the weight of four thousand years of knowledge. Was this blazing person in front of him Mithos the Hero? Was this incredible drive and passion what had ended the War? Was this the hero, burning as he fell to insanity?

"You can try to make me ashamed for what I did, but you won't succeed. The world wasn't changing, and I wasn't about to stand by and watch it die. I _saved_ the world, Genis, and there is nothing I've done that I feel the need to apologize for."

* * *

That night, Genis lay awake in his bed in the inn, curled beneath the blankets. He could feel Mithos' chill by the window, where he usually liked to be stationed. What he saw in the stars after four thousand years of watching them, Genis had no idea.

"…Does it hurt?"

A questioning sound.

"Dying, I mean."

Mithos looked back over his shoulder. The brilliance of earlier had dimmed, and he looked, once again, like the boy Genis had met in Ozette, his friend and confidant. "No," he said, voice soft. "The lead-up hurt," That part sounded pointed and Genis remembered slamming Mithos to the ground with gravity, remembered watching Mithos sway on his feet, bruised and bloody and still so proud. "But the dying itself was fine."

And Mithos had stood there, chin tilted, voice steady, no sign of weakness. Just…exhaustion. _I'm tired of your game of good-and-evil_.

Of course he'd been brave about it, had been strong enough to face them without shaking. Genis could never have done it. He wasn't strong. Or brave.

"Yes you are." Genis blinked at Mithos; it took him a minute to realize that he'd said at least part of his thoughts aloud. Mithos walked to crouch in front of the bed so that they were eye level. Genis could almost believe Mithos to be alive, solid and in front of him if it weren't for the fact that when Mithos reaches out to set his hand on the bed, it passes right through with a wrinkle of frustration passing over Mithos' face.

"Why do you think that you're not brave? Or strong?"

Genis curled a little closer in on himself. He'd become accustomed to Mithos' chill, but he wasn't used to Palmacosta's cool nights, particularly at this time of year. Genis didn't quite want to speak his words aloud, as though speaking them would make it real, but then, who would Mithos tell? "I just—I feel so afraid, all the time. Of the future, of messing things up—I don't think I'm the one that should be helping with all these politics."

"Don't be ridiculous. You've done more than most people do their entire lives." Mithos folds his arms on the bedspread and this time, he doesn't pass through. "You've never heard the true definition of bravery?"

Genis shook his head.

"Bravery isn't the lack of fear, but the overcoming of that fear. That moment when you make the decision that something is more important than being afraid. And you've made that decision. You do it every day." _Is it a sin to be weak-hearted?_

"And if you think you're not strong, remember," Mithos continued with a smirk. "Not just anyone can kill me."

* * *

Genis visited with the new Spirit of the Tree fairly often. He found her presence pretty soothing, actually. _(Mithos won't go near her. Genis wonders if it hurts him, to look at the Spirit, and see Martel)_ Yuan was nowhere to be seen today, although that wasn't entirely strange. He tended to keep to himself, even eight years after Mithos died and Cruxis fell.

She smelled like flowers and petrichor, as she always did. "Hello, Genis."

 _(She says it with the same lilt that Mithos does, the same stresses on the G and softening the rest of it, the barely sibilant S. He wonders if it's because of Martel, if it's the Yggdrasills' accent seeping through)_

"Hello, Martel." He knew it wasn't really her, but he'd never met Martel, not beyond the few minutes that she possessed Colette's body. Yuan and Kratos—before he'd left with Derris-Kharlan—never called her by her name. They called her Lady, if anything, or by her title. "How've you been?"

"The same as ever." It amused the Spirit that he always asked; Spirits didn't change, they didn't get sick, and yet, Genis always made it a point to ask about her well-being. It wasn't just politeness, she knew. "And yourself?"

"Pretty good." Genis had never spoken about Mithos—as a ghost—to her. Of all people, the Spirit wouldn't think him insane, but it felt like something incredibly personal. "How is the garden looking?"

The Tower of Salvation caused a lot of damage to the surrounding landscape when it fell. It had taken a few months for the air not to taste chalky with dust, and even for years afterward, a strong wind could bring it all back. Lloyd had suggested planting a garden. _(It's a strange thing to have learned from a dwarf, and while he doesn't exactly have a green thumb, Lloyd is still a fair hand with plants. He'd talked to Dirk, and they'd all helped plant everything from fruit trees to shrubs in the area)_ As a result, the area surrounding the new Tree had been blossomed and bloomed into quite the wild garden, particularly since flowers and grass pushed up from the ground whenever the Spirit took a step.

The Spirit hummed. "Well, the aspens are groaning, but that's to be expected. It's going to be a hot summer."

Genis wondered if the Spirit could really talk or listen to the plants, or whether it was just her Tree. She said she was made up of memories, but did plants count in that number? Could plants even _make_ memories? Either way, he'd learned to just roll with it. "Anything we can do to help them?"

The aspens had been brought down from the Ossa Mountains, where they thrived in the chillier, thinner air. Out here, it was only the Spirit's influence that kept them thriving, but even her powers had their limits.

"I had considered the possibility of burning them."

" _What?_ "

The Spirit's eyes were confused about his reaction. "Aspens are very strong to fire, Genis. There used to be a story about it…" Her eyes went unfocused, like she wasn't seeing the world in front of her, and indeed, perhaps she wasn't. Genis had seen this happen to her more than a few times. Sometimes, she snapped out of it right away. Other times, her voice would change, the accent, even the way she moved, as she said whatever needed to be said. He'd asked about it once or twice, but she seemed quite unaware of what was happening. Or she simply refused to tell him. Genis was pretty sure it was the latter.

This was one of the times where she snapped right back, her eyes refocusing with their strange quality of being both too young and too old for her face. "They are like phoenixes, Genis. They rise from their flames. It is healthy for them, rather than to wither under the sun."

Genis had never seen a phoenix, even after all his travels. He wondered if they were truly a myth. After all, they couldn't die, right? "If you think so. Is there something perhaps not as drastic?"

"We will see how they feel come springtime. Perhaps Efreet will be a bit more merciful this year." She placed a hand on one of the aspens, and Genis felt the gentle push of mana into the bark and down into the root system.

They walked together and there were plenty of times, particularly among the younger plants, where they knelt and pulled weeds. Genis chatted with her about Iselia—where he'd been spending most of his time. He saw less and less of Raine, busy as she was with overhauling the entire curriculum at the Sybak University, correcting its history, and removing the censors put in place to marginalize and further exclude half-elves—how it was getting more populated, and less small-town-like. It was starting to rival the size and wealth of Luin, before its destruction, which was a rather long way to come in eight years. He visited Palmacosta often, staying in Chocolat's spare room, and stopping by to visit with Neil. He didn't go to Meltokio as often anymore—Raine was closer, so she did a lot of the direct stuff—but he still wrote treatises and articles to the current Queen, Hilda, who was as sympathetic as she could be for someone raised with that kind of prejudice.

 _(She's a good woman, honestly. She doesn't always quite understand or quite sympathize all the way, but she is a fair Queen who is willing to work with Zelos on all this)_

Sometimes, Genis wondered if Yuan knew—or guessed—about Mithos. Particularly after he read what Mithos had dictated. Did he know that those words weren't Genis'? Did he recognize Mithos' speech patterns? Yuan would visit him in Iselia or Meltokio sometimes, and they'd discuss things over a meal or coffee—Yuan was fond of coffee, Genis had learned. He liked it strong and with the barest hint of sugar—but he'd never said anything if he had noticed.

It was evening by the time that Genis saw the Tree. It was growing, slowly, but steadily. Its trunk was thickening, the branches strong and sturdy. The leaves were a healthy green, and the nearer Genis went to it, the more mana he could feel trickling from its roots. Yuan had mentioned, once, that the old Tree, at the height of its power, used to look like the leaves were glowing from its mana. _(That just reminds Genis of the Spirit, of how her eyes always look like they're faintly glowing)_

Genis wished Mithos would come and see it, this lovely Tree. A symbol of the new world, of a world working past the horrors that people had inflicted on one another.

* * *

 _(What Genis doesn't know is that Mithos_ has _gone to see the Spirit and the Tree once. He has always had an insatiable curiosity._

 _He visits in the night, after Genis has fallen asleep. He doesn't need a map to find the new Tree; he can feel that mana fresh and clean across the world in a way he couldn't have if he were still alive. The barriers are so much thinner without things like oxygen to get in the way._

 _The Tree is small, so fragile. Not even a sapling yet. Mithos kneels in front of it, and he remembers the feeling of soft dirt, the grittiness of it on his palms, the fuzziness of leaves. He has never loved plants as Martel had, but he has always appreciated the art of creating and growing. That is something that world leaders never understand. Organizations, cities, countries—they aren't just cold nouns. They are organic, flowing things that respond to their seasons and soils, just as plants do. If you try to do too many things at once, they choke._

 _"Mithos."_

 _He whirls, his battle instincts never quite settling, never complacent. The spell is on his tongue before he ever made it a conscious thought._

 _The sight of her would take his breath away if he still needed to breathe._

 _Martel. Radiant, and powerful, and whole._

 _Except it's not._

 _The details are wrong. Her face is too narrow, her eyes too green. The waist is too slender, and she is clean of scars. There had been one bisecting her left eyebrow, and her forearms had had layers of burns from the cookpot. Her cheeks are missing her stardust freckles._

 _"Spirit."_

 _"My name is Martel."_

 _Mithos stood, jaw tense. "You're not her."_

 _"Not entirely," she concedes, and Mithos hates how serene she is. "But she is a large part of me."_

 _"You're a thief, Spirit."_

 _"I am what you made me."_

 _"You give me too much credit." He bares his teeth in a too-polite smile. "You did all the work, biding your time, collecting souls and energy. You really are the Demon Lord's heir." Parts of the world had called Ratatosk that, had had entire legends about instead of making pacts like the other Spirits, Ratatosk had demanded souls in exchange._

 _Her eyes narrow, and Mithos feels something inside him curl in satisfaction. He's always excelled at getting under people's skins. "Those souls were restless because of your Exspheres."_

 _"Exspheres are a natural thing._ I _didn't create them. You have your beloved Origin to thank for that."_

 _"Don't try to twist this." Her voice sounds different, the accent and cadence harsher. Mithos watches, fascinated, as her eyes change into something more gray than green; as her features go fuzzy, broad-browed and thin lips, but if he squints, he can still see her narrow, stolen face beneath it. How interesting that different souls and personalities can be shoved to the forefront. "You perverted their purposes."_

 _"A parasitic stone? One that doesn't affect less developed creatures? That's a very specific creation, I'd say. Nothing there for me to pervert."_

 _He can feel her mana crackling, charged with energy like the air before a storm. He isn't fazed; angering Spirits is something he's gotten quite good at over the millennia—and he's sure their Centurions have no love left for him either._

 _She's shifting again, and, for a moment, Mithos wonders if those blazing brown eyes and the curves of that face belong to Kratos' Anna; she certainly reminds him of Lloyd._

 _"You made them out of control, put them into a mass circulation and forced them on people," she hisses, consonants sharp. Her rage—the rage of every soul inside her—is palpable. "You turned them into a plague."_

 _Mithos tilts his head up at her. "Why waste your time scolding me about it? There's nothing more to be done to me—I'm_ dead _—so why not do something_ useful _with the eternity you've got on your hands? You want this Tree to be worth all those lives inside you? It doesn't happen by waiting; go out and do it yourself."_

 _The Spirit freezes, and he watches her fuzz and fade into her original form. He leaves, after that, and he pretends he doesn't see a ghost of Martel's face superimposed over the Spirit's)_

* * *

Genis avoided Heimdall, and that was just personal preference, honestly. The village set him on edge, even after its repairs and having seen Raine cut down the elves' pride, knowing that they had no leverage over her. It had been satisfying to watch though.

Mithos would go into Heimdall. Reluctantly.

At first, Genis didn't grasp why. Mithos was not only dead, but he'd been the most powerful being for four thousand years. The elves couldn't touch him, were afraid and disgusted to so much as speak his name.

But then he saw the momentary hesitation at the gates, saw the way that Mithos would stare at certain spots and it wasn't his usual spacing out. His eyes, his form, were heavy with memory. And then Genis remembered Mithos telling him of the village. The village he'd been born in, only to run him and Martel out a few short years later.

 _("They tried to_ burn _us. Everything about us burned. Our homes, our stories, our photos. And they would have had us in there too, if weren't for our mother. She pushed us out, got dragged back inside before she could escape. We heard her screams from the Ymir.")_

"Mithos?" Genis reached out a hand, almost to put it on his shoulder, even though he knew that Mithos couldn't feel it.

Those blue eyes met his, haunted and bruised and, for a moment, Genis' heart thumped with the memory of a mirror, and reflections spitting sins and truths at him, and after all of that, Mithos in the mirror, looking just as he did now. "I'm alright."

"There's no point in lying to me."

That seemed to give Mithos a little bit of fight. "Whoever said I was lying?"

"I know you better than that." Genis tilted his head a little at him. "What do you see?"

Mithos' eyes flickered back and forth across the village. "What I want to see."

"And that is?"

Mithos' grin was brutal. "Everything they've built scorched to the ground. It's poetic."

 _(The terrifying thing about Mithos is that this, the violence, this brutality, isn't part of his insanity. All his insanity did was amplify it, twist it. This is a result of the Kharlan War, a result of being a child soldier, of being a target, all his life)_

"You have bad taste in poetry."

That made Mithos blink and laugh, a lovely sound that didn't match the violence that vibrated beneath his skin. "Fair enough."

* * *

The Sage siblings' schedules were packed to the point where they had to designate days out of the month to visit. At least once every two weeks for lunch or dinner. Breakfast was much rarer, and really, Raine was more of a night owl. Genis missed his sister, and some days, it was still strange not to see her every day.

Mithos didn't attend those meetings, the ones just between Genis and Raine.

Genis asked him why. It wasn't like he could stop him from going, and he wouldn't be _unwelcome_ , really. His Rheaird was out of the wing pack, sleek and still not blinding even in the late morning sunlight. Part of a good design, he thought. Whoever had designed them—and Genis was willing to bet that it had been Yuan—had taken into account that they would be flying in direct sunlight for much of the time, and had taken care not to use a reflective metal.

Mithos just shrugged. He was very solid today; if Genis didn't know better, he would think that Mithos was alive all over again. "You should enjoy your time with your sister."

And that made something drop in Genis' stomach. He remembered Mithos' voice in Derris-Kharlan, broken and insane and talking to his sister like she'd never died, like no one else was in the room. He remembered Mithos on their travels, and the little stories he'd mentioned about the sister who raised him, and the fond, sad smile he'd had. He remembered Mithos' voice, echoing in that final battle, when Lloyd had him pinned, saying that all he'd wanted was to save his sister.

 _(When Genis lands, Raine is waiting for him at Sybak's gates, a book in her hands. She marks the page and smiles at the sight of him, and he slams into her with a hug. The terror comes back, the terror of seeing her in a crumbling room, ready to die, and him helpless and_ useless _only able to run. The terror of dying alone in that hallway, and how grateful he'd been that at least he isn't far behind Raine, maybe they'll make it to the other side together._

 _Raine hugs him back and kisses his cheek because he's taller than her now—and that's kind of a trip in and of itself—and asks if he's alright. Genis is twenty-one years old and his sister is still taking care of him and he's so incredibly grateful to have her that he just hugs her a little tighter and just says that he's missed her)_

* * *

He held Colette's baby while she slept, and the baby's so _small_. He knew, logically, that newborns were only so big, but still. He smiled at Colette, her hair straw-like after the few days of being in the clinic. It's just to be on the safe side, Raine assured them, as though the midwife hadn't already done that. Both mother and baby were fine.

The baby's eyes—and Genis wondered if they have a name picked out for her already—were still that pretty, pale blue, and he hoped they stay that color, that it's just like Colette's. The baby's face was like most newborns, still heavily pink, and with a thin, soft head of brown hair that's tinted red in the afternoon light.

He didn't jump when Mithos appeared, but he did hold the baby a little closer, an instinctive protective gesture.

Mithos' eyes flicked to his. "I couldn't hurt her even if I wanted to."

With that reminder and a small twinge of guilt, Genis uncurled so that Mithos could get a closer look. Their eyes meet—Mithos' and the baby's—and the baby gurgled happily at him. Mithos drew back a little in surprise, but returned the smile.

"Does she have a name yet?"

"There's been some debate. The name 'Anna' is on the list. So is 'Sasha'."

"A mother's name. Very traditional."

"Mm." Genis remembered Virginia, up in Exire. _If it's a girl, I'll name her Jean. If it's a boy, I'm going to name him Genis._ He didn't know what had happened to her, after the worlds reunited. Sheena had asked Maxwell to keep the city floating for all those not ready to return to the rest of the world, but some had chosen to venture out. He doubted Virginia had.

Lloyd came in soon after, and Genis handed him his daughter. She was a quiet baby, so far. "Not like her dad," Genis teased and Lloyd shot him a playful glare.

* * *

It was one of many dinners at Dirk's when Lloyd handed Yuan his daughter—still less than a month old—and Genis nearly choked on his drink because of the man's expression. A mix of bewilderment and shock that changed rapidly to feigned annoyance even as he gave the baby his finger to hang onto.

When the attention was shifted off him, Genis watched how Yuan's eyes went sad and fond even as he gently ran a finger up and down the tiny palm. He looked, paradoxically, every year of his age, and every bit the young man he'd been. _(It is odd for Genis to picture that. Yuan has always been an adult, eons above him in experience and wisdom, but now, at this very moment, he can see Yuan as the young man whose wife had been murdered, who'd fought in a war and lost so much and still kept going)_

Mithos' voice came from the stairs, a little bit behind and above Genis. "He would have made a good father."

Genis didn't respond; between Colette, Zelos, and Yuan, there were too many with supernatural hearing to listen on half of the conversation. But Mithos knew him well enough to predict the responses anyway.

"Martel was pregnant, once. Carried it for five months. We were all so excited."

Mithos' voice was tight with pain and memory, and he didn't have to continue for Genis to guess the rest of the story. A warzone wasn't a place for a pregnant woman, and a miscarriage was well within the realm of possibility. It helped explain Yuan's quiet fascination with little Sasha.

Sasha got passed around until she was well asleep in Sheena's arms in the rocking chair. Sheena took her upstairs to sleep in the crib that Dirk had made for her. The rest of the night was a buzz of warmth and enjoyment, drinks being passed around since this was officially a celebration of Sasha's birth.

Genis left halfway through the night, sleepiness beginning to drag at him and there wasn't enough room in this house for everybody to sleep. He stopped by upstairs to bid Sasha goodbye, and was surprised to find Mithos sitting cross-legged by her crib, a ghostly sentry.

A guardian angel, Genis thought and the irony is both funny and not.

* * *

"Can she see you?" Genis asked several months later as he sipped his morning tea. "Sasha, I mean." Mithos seemed rather fond of Sasha, staying near her crib or the nest of blankets that would be laid out on the floor for her. Sasha certainly seemed to respond as though he was there, giggling and gurgling and reaching for him. It was hard to tell with a baby though.

"I think so."

It's one of the few uncertain answers that Mithos had given him in all these years. "Do you think all newborns can do it?"

At that, Mithos shook his head. "I doubt that. You're forgetting her parentage. Both of her parents have enhanced senses, and one of her grandparents was an angel. That combined with a baby's natural openness to the world would be why she can see me, if she can."

"You think Sasha has enhanced senses?"

"It's a high possibility. Lloyd had them, even before his Exsphere developed."

"As a baby?"

"No. From Forcystus' reports, when he was hunting him, Lloyd leapt off one of the cliffs near the Iselia Ranch. Landed without a scratch. Even with an Exsphere, it should have caused _some_ damage."

Genis thought about it, remembered childhood adventures with Lloyd and yes, for all of his insane and—looking back—dangerous ideas, he'd never been injured beyond a few cuts and bruises. "That makes sense." He was seized with a scary thought. "Will the Cruxis Crystals that Lloyd and Colette had—will they affect her health?"

"Unlikely. If anything, it should make her stronger against illnesses and infections." Sometimes, Genis forgot that Mithos could have been a Healer, like Martel. He had the knowledge, and he certainly had the power. Just never the inclination.

The world would have been quite different, Genis thought, if Mithos had followed his sister's path.

Or perhaps not. Mithos never saw himself as damaging the world; he saw himself as saving it. Perhaps it _was_ a Healing mindset.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?" Colette asked when he came to visit her and Sasha. Lloyd was in Meltokio.

"Yeah, shoot." Genis couldn't think of what it could possibly be. They'd all seen the worst in each other, had fought beside and—sometimes—against each other. What could she think would be off boundaries to ask?

"You've never really mentioned anybody, but…has there been anyone? Romantically?"

There was no way he could've seen that coming. "Uh, no. Not really." He'd tried a few dates, here and there, but it had never gone past the second date. Well, and Mithos, but Mithos had been, at best, preteen fumblings, little more than a few kisses and holding hands. It had been awkward and short-lived. _(Technically. Another way to put it is that Mithos has been his longest relationship, but that in no way counts)_

"I didn't just mean women," Colette adds hastily. "We love you no matter what and—"

Genis laughed, loving Colette fiercely in that moment. Sasha was crawling, and he kept one eye on her, even if he didn't have to because Mithos was both entertaining and watching her. "No, no men either. I don't think I really, see people in that way, y'know? Not often."

"Okay." The anxiousness faded from her eyes—the same eyes that Sasha had kept. "I just didn't want you to think you had to hide from us."

"I never would." Without looking, Genis could feel Mithos rolling his eyes. It wasn't like Genis had been hiding the fact that he'd been talking and living with Mithos' ghost for over ten years.

* * *

Despite what he'd told Colette, he _had_ gone on a date or two. Just dinner, a coffee once, just talking and while Genis had had a pleasant time, he hadn't felt any particular draw to any of them. He'd been awkward, sure, but that had eased away as the nights had gone on, so it wasn't a matter of comfort.

"Does it make me broken?" Genis wondered aloud to Mithos after one of the failed dates.

He'd been surprised by the ferocity of Mithos' answer. "No. You're not broken. You're _not_."

It had helped, and Genis had smiled as he thanked him. Mithos looked taken aback at the gratitude.

* * *

Genis was scrubbing at a particularly annoying stain on his kitchen floor—the stir fry had had too much sauce last night and it had jumped rather spectacularly out of the pan. Mithos had been laughing the whole time at Genis' attempts to dance out away from the hot sauce and still keep a hold on the pan—when a knock came at the door.

Genis frowned, trying to remember if he was expecting someone today. Today was…Wednesday, and Neil had said that he wouldn't be in Iselia until Thursday night, at the earliest, since the Ossa Trail had been experiencing some bad landslides last week. Dusting himself off—he needed to sweep too, but there was no point until he got this stain out—Genis went to the door, pushing loose hair out of his face. It was time for a haircut again.

On the other side of the door was a group of three people, two men and woman. The woman's hair was long and loose, but the men wore hoods drawn low over their heads. They didn't seem like a threat, but Genis felt old instincts stirring.

"Can I help you?"

"Are you Genis Sage?" one of the men asked uncertainly. "Only, we asked the woman at the general store and her directions were rather…"

"Unconventional?" Genis suggested dryly. "That sounds like Rose." Rose was a sweetheart, a woman who had been elderly as long as Genis had known her, but her directions resembled vague descriptions of places rather than the road to get there. "Why were you looking for me?"

"We're students, from the Research Academy in Meltokio," the woman answered. "Well, students is still kind of a _loose_ term, but—"

Now that he was looking for it, Genis could pick out the elvish features in their faces, the slant to their eyes, the long, slender limbs. They had human traits too, but nine times out of ten, humans didn't hide their ears. "Come on in. I'll make coffee; you guys look like you can use some."

Genis' house—it was properly his now, not shared between him and Raine—wasn't really equipped for a lot of guests. Three was honestly the limit, which was lucky. They sat at his little dining table while he set the coffee percolating. The men pull down their hoods and Genis was right; there are the triangular tips to their ears. Half-elves.

"So. What did you want to ask me?"

The students glanced at each other before launching into questions about his essays, his beliefs on the current political balance between Sylvarant and Tethe'alla—still favored towards Tethe'alla, but still much more even than it had been right after the worlds had been reunited. They asked him about his work for half-elven rights, and whether he believed the next bill for negating the previous law that half-elves could only own property in pre-designated areas would go through.

Genis was a little overwhelmed by the attention, but really, he should have seen this coming. He'd helped change the world. Of course people were going to have questions. And they already had; they just hadn't talked to him. Lloyd, Colette, and Zelos got most of the attention. Sheena was on and off, since she'd been trying to get Mizuho more involved in the world. Regal and Raine put themselves into the spotlight, forcing talks about the issues that needed to be addressed. But Genis and Presea? They'd been much more in the background of things.

Over their heads, Genis saw Mithos grinning a little before he vanished. Genis sat down with his coffee and answered their questions. Monica—as she finally introduced herself—was a native of Meltokio, had grown up in the half-elf slums, and she had a habit of her words getting out before her thoughts caught up, which meant that she rambled a little, and sometimes cut herself off. Petyr was her cousin, but there was little physical resemblance. Hector was from Altamira, had gone to study in Meltokio thanks to one of the Lezareno Company scholarships. Education—higher or otherwise—was still a tricky thing for half-elves, with its own incredible amount of hurdles.

It was…nice. Most of Genis' ideas weren't ones he got to have conversations about. He wrote them out, published them in newspapers and journals, or sent them directly to Hilda, but other than speaking out to the city governments in Sylvarant—they had no monarchy, had chosen not to start one, and they'd all decided that they couldn't be unified as a country until the city-states themselves had time to grow properly—and the Parliament that backed up Hilda's reign, he'd never really had them out loud.

Genis ended up making dinner for them too, they stayed so late. He managed to stretch his curry out for all four of them, and they took a break from the heavy conversation for a while. Genis listened as they told him about the pranks that Petyr would play at school—the man was intelligent, but mischievous—and Monica told the story with many a roll of an eye.

"I can describe the holding cell in Sybak quite well from memory," Petyr said, green eyes twinkling.

 _(Genis laughs with them, even shares some of their own—minor—school day troubles, Lloyd often at the helm, but he still marvels at these three, still very young—perhaps eighteen at the most—and how easy they are with these stories. Genis remembers when any crime, however minor, would have been a death sentence for half-elves, remembers the chains on his wrists, remembers Raine's bowed head, and he thinks with satisfaction that they have come a long way)_

* * *

"I told you," Genis said that night as he scrubbed the dishes. The entire house smelled like curry, and he'd thrown open a window to air some of it out. Tethe'allan technology had begun making its way out to Sylvaranti towns, and Iselia did have some buildings with air conditioning, but it was just the school, the general store, and the very newest houses. "We all did."

"Told me what?" Mithos asked, his tone almost absent-minded.

"That change was possible. That it would take time, but people could change." Genis looked over at his ghost. "Those kids would have been put to death ten years ago for those pranks, without a trial or an inquiry or anything. Ten years ago, they wouldn't have even been _allowed_ in the Research Academy, except in its basements for bare bones scraps."

"Change is possible," Mithos agreed, and his eyes were hard with old memories. "But how will this last? This, post-war euphoria? All these recent epiphanies? How long before everyone swings back to their beliefs that a group of people is better because of their blood?"

"That's why education is important. Teaching the next generations so they don't repeat those mistakes. Look at Sasha; she doesn't even see the differences between us and her parents, between Dirk and the other townspeople. Discrimination is not something innate in people; it's taught."

"It's never going to go away, Genis. People will always find something to hate. It's why we needed to be equalized."

Genis didn't look at him, staring down at the dishwater, his hands covered in suds. "…You really can't be convinced otherwise, can you?"

"I thought you realized that when you all made the decision to kill me."

"I hoped I was wrong."

"I've watched this happen before. Progress is made, and it all looks like it's getting better. Then something small, something so _inane_ happens and all the progress just stops. And then it goes backwards. I lived for four thousand years, Genis. I watched entire empires rise and fall; I saw their potential for greatness, helped foster it, and then I saw it all taken away because _people—_ as a historical species—don't change.

"Twenty-five hundred years ago, I thought there was a chance—a _good_ chance—that I was wrong. Sylvarant had come into power again a century or so before. It was becoming prosperous, with good trade, a united kingdom under the rule of the Balacruf. They worshipped the Sylph as an aspect of the Goddess. They were a largely human kingdom, but they were inclusive. Half-elves lived the same lives as the others, facing inequality, but not the same kind of brutality that had been so prevalent before. Cleo III was a good king, the last good one, before he was murdered by his sister-wife, who wanted to put herself on the throne. Johanna was…insane, to be frank."

"Legitimately or perceived as such by history?"

A hum of approval. "Both. I can't say why she was driven insane—she had been a good queen, but that had been a figurehead position in those times. She made herself an empress and that's when the insanity showed itself. She chose to construct the mausoleum to her departed husband—a ruse to make herself sympathetic. There was no proof of her being the murderer until just before her death, when witnesses stepped forward—but raised the taxes to insane amounts to pay for it, and blamed it on the smaller portion of the population—largely half-elves—that chose to believe in a different version of the Goddess, calling them charlatans."

Mithos' eyes went dark. "She rounded them up, soaked them in cooking oil and burned them, leaving them for carrion. And the humans accepted it, took part in it even. The only reason she was killed was because her generals noticed the flow of money sapping the people and they chose to hunt her down."

Genis clenched his fists; he knew Sylvarant's history, had grown up learning it right alongside Raine as she prepared herself to teach it, but Mithos had _been_ there. He'd _seen_ it happen. "We've come a long way since then."

"Have we? No one in Sylvarant has had that kind of power since then. In Tethe'alla? A woman named Spiritua was known as the Angel of Death for the things she did to people who didn't believe in the Church of Martel. It was only eight hundred years ago."

"Was she the same Spiritua as—"

"No. Her successor. She managed to make it to Tethe'alla from Sylvarant, was able to view the way that Tethe'alla was declining, and was jealous of the remnants of the advanced civilization that was there that Sylvarant had not yet advanced to. She needed a reason, and she found one."

"We can do better," Genis said. He needed to say it aloud, needed to believe it. Otherwise, what was the point? "We _will_ do better."

Mithos' smile was a bitter, deprecating slash of his lips. Genis was struck by the expression, having seen it on Kratos' face more than once. "Best of luck."

* * *

Genis read the news in the paper. _Riots Erupt in Altamira and Meltokio Following Death of Half-Elf Advocate._

For a moment, Genis' breath froze in his chest, thinking of his friends, of Raine. Had they been killed? Were they alright? But he read the article, and it wasn't any of his friends, wasn't his family. It had been a woman he'd associated with a few times, getting her in touch with Regal and Presea for workers' rights. She'd been fierce, and stubborn, and Genis had thought that she would succeed in whatever she chose to do.

But she'd been killed, publicly. She was making a speech, and someone shot her. They'd caught the shooter; he hadn't been remorseful at all. Had simply shouted about how half-breeds needed to get back in their place, that they were demanding too much.

He wanted to fly out, to go to Altamira or Meltokio, to help, but there was nothing he could do. He could get Raine, get medical supplies, transport them out there. There would be a lot of injured people there.

Genis' fists clenched. He had _magic_. Spells strong enough to kill an angel, to summon meteors from the sky. He could use it, could stun all of them, could make them listen. But he'd likely be deemed a terrorist himself.

"Galling, isn't it?" Mithos said, and Genis looked over at him. The fury and injustice was sparking in his veins, and Mithos, looking calm and cool as ever, wasn't helping. "That these governments and militaries make decisions and impose laws that shouldn't apply to you. You've done all of this for them, and they still want you on a leash, when they don't know what you've been through, or why. They don't know what you've survived." Mithos' eyes met Genis, and Genis felt like he was looking in a mirror. _(There is no Goddess…The world wasn't changing, and I wasn't about to stand by and watch it die…)_ "They can't stop you. Not if you don't want them to."

Temptation was there. The power was at his fingertips. Genis could be a god. He would be helping them. That's what his power was for. He was no longer a frightened child; he'd helped save the world, had helped dismantle Cruxis, had survived everything the insane angel had thrown at them.

But then he thought of Lloyd, bursting through that mirror. The sound of breaking glass, and he remembered burying his nose in the red jacket with its familiar smell of sweat, and dirt and _Lloyd_ , and how brave Lloyd been, standing up to Mithos unwaveringly. The weakness of people's hearts. Genis' eyes went to his nightstand, where he kept his mirror shard—sanded down to prevent any accidents.

 _You're strong, Genis…Not just anyone can kill me._

But what was strength, really? Who decided?

It was easy to be strong when you had power. Easy to turn into a bully.

It was harder to be strong when you felt powerless, to make the hard decision, and to know when to use your power.

Sometimes, being strong meant stepping back.

"You're right," Genis told him. "But I don't want to be that person." To be _you_ , Genis didn't say. "I want them to stop me. That's what the law is for, and no one is above it. Not even me."

"You choose that, fine. But every single person that's hurt, every consequence from whatever happens with this," Mithos tapped the newspaper with his finger, making no sound, but it still served as punctuation. "Is on you. Is on everyone who doesn't step up."

"Stepping down is not the same as standing aside," Genis told him, and he felt solid, felt so right about this. "And it's not that I'm choosing to do nothing. I'm choosing not to do the wrong thing."

Mithos snorted, looking more transparent than he had all day.

"It's why you did it all, right?" Genis said quietly. "For Martel. So no one could ever forget her. She happened the same way as this woman."

Mithos stiffened.

"You wanted people to know how amazing she was." He had turned her into the Goddess he'd always seen her as, made sure that she would not be one of thousands of half-elves lost to history, their voices silenced, as the humans had tried to do to her. "You wanted justice for her."

"You would do the same for Raine." Mithos' voice was tight with emotions that Genis couldn't name.

Genis wanted to say no, wanted to think that he'd never go to the depths that Mithos went but—Mithos must have thought the same, once. Grief changed people.

"Maybe once, I would've. But not anymore. I know where I stand. And it's not with you or what you believe in. Things will change, for the better. It will take work. It will take sacrifice—you're right about that. Change doesn't come without being hurt—but it will happen. The right way."

Genis got his medical kit from his closet, and making sure his wallet was in his pocket, and the wing pack was in the other one. He would need to make a stop, to buy more gels and more supplies, but this was a start. He would get Raine on the way, assuming she wasn't already there. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.

Mithos vanished, and Genis was terrified for a moment that this was it, this was the big epiphany. Mithos had only stuck around as a ghost so that Genis would understand how far he could fall, how much a person could break. _This could be you_. And Genis knew it. He'd almost been there, once, had almost said yes to Mithos, up on Derris-Kharlan, with his sins being spat at him from a mirror. Had almost told him yes a few minutes ago, feeling all of his being rise up in injustice.

But that didn't matter, Genis realized. He didn't need Mithos. Mithos could be gone for good, or he could wake up the next morning to find him staring through the window at the dawn. It didn't matter. Genis would go about his life as always, regardless of what Mithos thought, or did.

He was strong, and he was the one to make the decision on what being strong meant.


End file.
